Weaponless Warrior
by The Madman From The Bronx
Summary: . It was 10 years now that she appeared on the Rosenberry's doorstep, owning only her name and that pendant around her neck. By now, the whole town had forgotten, but she hadn't. Not when Heather was so close to her past. REWRITING
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all who know me from the Stand By Me fandom, I am trying out a new fandom and hello all who know me as a reviewer for the Narnia fandom- something that I have been doing for quite a while now. Well, I am FINALLY writing a Narnia fanfic so hope you like, please review!**

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_Grass grew tall in the eastern countryside. Tiger lilies grew among the tall grasses. The wind, so strong and harsh, almost pressed everything flat. An angry gray became the sky, and loud thunder sent the small raindrops hurtling to the ground. A small child stood in the middle of it all. She stood on her tip-toe and strained to see the great house beyond the bending grasses. She couldn't have been a day over five. Her face was twisted into a grimace, and her chest puffed in and out with huge sobs. Where am I? she thought. What am I doing here? "MUMMY!!" she screamed. "MUMMY!"_

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I glanced down at the sheet of paper I was doodling on. Frowning in concentration and discontent. It was there, all right. It had probably been always, but now it was clearer than ever. Everybody else had forgotten. But I hadn't. I would never forget for as long as I live. Fiddling unconsciously with the locket around my neck, (a habit I had picked up over the years) I wondered if they would've forgotten me, like this place did- in a way. I wondered what kind of welcome I would receive in the land of my birth- I had long since forgotten the name.

Heather is my name, and Finchley is where I have been living for the past ten years. Before that, I do not remember. I was the town's mystery. Apparently, when I was 5, I showed up on a random doorstep, owning nothing but my name and the silver pendant I wore around my neck. I still have that pendant to this day. It's the strangest thing, with some kind of eight-pointed star in the center of it. But, that's how I became a Rosenberry, even though I've been living so long with them, I may as well have been born into the family. Anyhow, seemingly a lifetime later, the town seems to have forgotten, or just accepted it and moved on. I was no longer the town's mystery. Now I was the town's pest. Let's just say I wouldn't take a load of rubbish from anybody. For these past few months, even years, it felt like my life was going both uphill and downhill, only at the same time. Everybody loathed me it seemed, except my family, who didn't really like me that much anyhow. Probably because I got into fights pretty often. Fighting was my nature. Fighting was my nature, and nobody accepted that. I was the odd one out, so if I had come from around here, why would I be so violent? Another reason my past wasn't worth forgetting about.

And now, something was going on. Something that I could sense millions of miles away, even though others couldn't. Finchley was no different, nor were the people of it. Some days I thought I was crazy, but today I know I'm onto something. It was something, speaking to me and me alone: my past. I doodled idly on my paper. This was it; I swear this was it. It was somewhere in the back of my head, and I only had a few single images of it, like single frames out of a damaged film reel. But, it was all here, or it all would be, very soon. I have never been so close to my past as I was now. These visions were almost as vivid as real life. The answer, the full answer, would be granted soon. The key to my past.

"Rosenberry!" My eyes shot up to the teacher's voice that had immediately changed from the buzz of a fly to a loud, booming vacuum cleaner. "Since you are obviously so intent on learning in this class, will you please tell us how Dickens began upon writing as a career?"

_Hmmm. Dickens? Dunno. I've never read anything by him, and I really don't care to read anything by him. Why doesn't this class preach modern literature?" _I yawned audibly. I couldn't help it. English really was such a bore. I wasn't trying to anger my darling teacher. English Literature really was that boring.

My teacher glared expectantly at me. Today I couldn't even remember his name. _Dickens… let's see…_

"Didn't he write A Christmas Carol first?"

Several people snickered. Some good-naturedly, (those of whom appreciated some good civil lack of respect) and the majority patronizingly. (those of whom thought I was off my rocker) Mr. Nameless Teacher bored into my eyes, tapping his pointer in his hand as if desiring very much to hit me with it. "Sir Charles Dickens began his career as a reporter." _Oh no, the big speech._ "His first published success was The Pickwick Papers, followed by Oliver Twist, which I am fairly sure the majority of you have heard of…" He glared conspicuously at me. _Oh, so Oliver Twist came first! Or second, but I've never heard of The Pickwick Papers. Though I was just guessing by earliest age of the characters. How old was Tiny Tim? Ten?_

...

_I get off with a warning, basically nothing to me._ I growled, grabbing my satchel from under my desk and leaving the now-almost-deserted classroom. I was in a pretty lousy mood about this. Usually he hit me with a ruler. I don't care to avoid anything, thank you very much. Why couldn't he just hit me and that be the end of it?

"Heather, have you worked on that frou-frou accent of yours?" A voice growled in my ear, menacing, intimidating.

I was not in the mood for this. "At least I don't sound like an idiot like you do, Bennett."

Charlie Bennett was one of the most annoying kids in my grade. He would make the stupidest comments, probably meaning them to be insults, and then expect to get everybody riled up. That never worked. He would never make it as a bully, no matter how hard he tried.

"Oh, and before I forget, Mr. Lynch wants to see you again in his classroom, _Rosenberry_." _Ah... Mr. Lynch, that was his name._

Bennett smirked and walked away, and I rolled my eyes again. I really didn't mind when people made fun of my accent, because it's not as bad as all the other things they've said about me. A sock in the face and a purple bruise on my cheek aren't worth getting because of the way I talk.

But I've never heard anybody else with an accent like mine. I don't even know what it is. There's not a bit of English in it. A slight lilt, people (aka Bennett) tell me, yet no Spanish accent, either. And I was sent away to America with my siblings last year when we all had to leave, and I came back to Fincheley even _more_ confused. So, I eventually decided that it wasn't worth pondering about and incriminated it on my unknown past.

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I was up in my room, trying to read a book for English class. Incidentally, it was called A Christmas Carol and incidentally, it was by Charles Dickens. Apparently, the assignment was unbeknownst to other classmates, and incidentally, I had a 1,000 word essay on why the book was a classic. Incidentally I apparently had to read said essay aloud to my entire class. Okay, so my teacher had punished me after all, but _why_ the bloody hell is he making me read a _children's _book? _This is so humiliating! He could hit me with a ruler ten dozen times and I wouldn't look like such a fool!_ I fumed. _Why is this book a classic anyway? I'm no novelist!_

I fumed for another good ten minutes, and to describe that would be an utter waste of time. Even I admit it, I can be very repetitive sometimes. That's how I know I'm not a novelist. Just one more time, let me say it was stupid. Very, very stupid and pointless. And then, what had happened just earlier that day began to happen again. I began _seeing _things. Trees, so many of them, tall, their limbs stretching high above themselves. A blue, cloudy sky, the sun peeking through a hole in a cloud, illuminating a path down from the sky. Flowers, and flower nymphs that floated around and whispered in your ear, if you came close enough. _A lush and beautiful place… just like a child's dream. _I scrambled on my feet and grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper, quickly scribbling out the beginning of my English essay. _Lord knows I would have abandoned it long ago if I hadn't been so young when it began._ I scowled imperiously, as I always did. I was no child. I had no time for fairy tales. But I did have time for where I once was, where I never had the chance to live. If people had to defend themselves on a regular basis there, it couldn't be all that bad. In fact, if it's such a contrast from this place I inhibit now, it'd be great. If only…

"Heather! Dinner time!"

"Coming!" I rose, cursing under my breath at being interrupted… again. Every time I began getting these visions, something got in the way. The only time I could ponder without limit was at nighttime, when the whole world was finally kind enough to stop pestering me because it was asleep, and it was too tired to scold me to do the same.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, all. I am asking you please to REVIEW! Flames and constructive criticism are accepted with open arms. From the stats and alerts, I know that people are reading this. :D**

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Everybody in our family hated the song "Oh, Johnny" by the Andrews' Sisters. I thought it was too optimistic. I think Tilly secretly agreed with me. Ada wouldn't listen to anybody but her favorite singer, Jane Powell. Rachel hated 3-part harmony. (she was the singer of the family) Harriett hated American singers.

Incidentally, the crackling tone of "Oh Johnny" found its way onto the evening station while we were eating dinner. And the real reason we all groaned and complained as we turned off the radio was because we did miss Johnny. Our Johnny.

Johnny was my brother, tall and lean, with messy light-brown hair, always with an optimistic grin on his face. Ever ready and willing to fight alongside Britain, the country that he loved. He was so patriotic. If he were an American, he would be Uncle Sam himself. But Johnny wasn't American, and Johnny wasn't Uncle Sam. Johnny was my brother. And Johnny wasn't the only one we've missed. Hiram, my father, and Adam, my other brother, were drafted in the war. Johnny had run off afterwards and joined of his own accord. "Oh Johnny" reminded us of all of them. Perhaps the real reason that Harriett hated American singers was that there was more than one "Johnny" song. She seemed to like Jeanette MacDonald enough before the war.

"Mum, can you pass the gravy?" Rachel asked in a small voice. She was the first one to speak. Tilly reached over quick as lightning and grabbed it, before anybody could say another word. The bowl slipped in her grasp and grabby slopped over the bowl and onto the table. "I'll clean it." I said quickly, bumping my knee against the table and knocking over my chair in my haste to get to the kitchen.

I ran into the kitchen, snatching a washcloth from the counter. The plate concealed under it slid from the counter and fell to the floor. I could hear Rachel choke on the tea that she was drinking. Ada began to cry. Desperate, I sprinted out of the kitchen, the cloth dangling from my shaking and startled hand. Tilly darted past me, murmuring "I've got it." I scurried back to the table and ran the cloth over the gravy stain. Rage filled my head. _Why can't we just pull ourselves together? Getting all worked up over some stupid song…_ I looked down at my hands, noticing that they were shaking.

Harriet stood up at the table.

We all froze.

Without a single word, she pushed back her chair and walked past us, treading across the floor, stepping up the stairway where a morose creak, creak, creak, followed her up every stair, even after she was gone from our sight.

Rachel was the next to leave, dragging Ada Behind her by means of their tightly clasped hands. They were completely silent going up the stairs. Even Ada had stopped crying.

Stifling a sigh, I walked into the kitchen. Tilly was cleaning up the bits of broken place. _With her bare hands,_ I noted.

"Tilly, go upstairs. I'll take care of it." I muttered.

"I can do i…"

"Upstairs, now." I said firmly. Seeing her glare, I added, "I'll take care of it."

It was too late. I could tell she was angry with me when the glare didn't subside from her face. I eyed her hands. To my relief, she hadn't managed to cut them. "I don't take orders." She said through gritted teeth.

"Neither do I." I said slowly, trying to match her gruff tone. "And I hate having to give them."

Tilly glared even harder at me, then dropped, no threw, the plate remnant she was holding onto the ground. She left in a huff, roughly bumping my shoulder on the way out of the room.

_That was nicely handled,_ I thought, dropping down to my hands and knees on the kitchen floor. It was true, I didn't like giving orders… and I very much didn't like giving orders to my sisters. Tilly didn't like me, I knew that very well. Tilly didn't like being treated by a kid, something which I also knew very well… not only in fact, but in experience. Harriett kind of babied us all along. I had found my own way to cope with it- fighting. She had tried stopping me at first- but then figured out that I was too old to protect. She didn't try stopping me now, but still she strongly disapproved. But if so much as a scratch appeared on one of the others, she threw all sorts of rubbish at me. Tilly didn't need a babysitter, but I was one under obligation. Of course she wouldn't like me! I wouldn't like myself under those circumstances.

Harriett didn't see that, at 13, Tilly was now also too old to be protected, and I was fed up. _Maybe because Tilly was her own child? _I mused. _No._ I stopped myself. _No, I mustn't think that. Why do I always get like this? Feeling sorry for myself? It's so disgusting! I'm nowhere near perfect, so I need to quit it. Actually, I'm being more of a brat. A weak, superficial brat. Tilly was mad at me because it was my own fault. I yell at her because of my own problems. I yell at her because I'm fed up with Harriett. I'm no better than Harriett- I'm just treating her like a kid._

Yeah, well, Tilly needed to grow up too. Very little of this was my fault. I'm happy to take some of the blame, but I'm not going to take all of it. Why didn't she at least rebel against Harriett- instead of me- where it would actually be useful? I can't go to Harriett, defending her like a court case… she'll just bite my head off. If she really wants to break free, she has to at least rebel against the right people. Though I'll admit it, that's a very hard thing to do sometimes.

At six o'clock, everybody shuffled down to the living room for a talk, since we didn't get much of one at dinner, because of what happened. We didn't talk about it. We never talked about it.

Everybody told a story of what they had done that day. Ada wrote a memoir of her first bicycle ride in English class, which she read aloud to us. Harriett spilled coffee all over a man during her job waitressing. He didn't give her any tip. We all laughed hard at that one, and tried to ignore the part about no tip. Rachel had a secret admirer. He'd slipped a poem in her desk while she wasn't looking. (Drat!) She read the poem out loud. The poem rhymed. I hated poems that rhymed. Unfortunately rhyming poems were the only type I could come up with for English class. Figures.

Then it was Tilly's turn. She smiled wanly and smoothed her dark hair. "I tried to help someone today and they yelled at me."

I tightened my lips into a firm line. _That… that fiend!_

"Who was it, dear?" Harriett asked, shocked.

"Tilly was cleaning up the broken plate at dinner and I… I yelled at her." I cut across Tilly, who had already begun to speak. If Harriett didn't hear the truth now, she would never hear it.

Everybody gaped at me.

"I was angry, it was the wrong thing to do." I looked right at Tilly. "I'm sorry for that, Tilly. I really am." I absolutely hated doing this. It seemed as if I were just apologizing for consent. _I'm going to find Tilly when we go upstairs and give her a __real__ apology_. I decided.

Silence. Then, "Come on, Heather, let's hear about your day!"

"Well," My eyes glowed with remembrance. "I read a certain essay to my class today. It was the dreadful essay I was working on after dinnertime yesterday."

Sounds of recognition, wrinkled noses, and 'Oh, _that_ essay.' s filled the room.

"I misspelled 25 words, mispronounced the name _Charles Dickens_, and apparently 'Nevermore,' is one word instead of two, so it turned out to be 999 words instead of 1000. Mr. Lynch threw a fit."

Rachel and Ada roared with laughter. Harriet tittered lightly, for I was not supposed to be making a fool of myself at school, but I could tell that she was amused. Tilly was unable to suppress a simple smirk.

Ada yawned. She and Rachel said their goodnights, trudging upstairs to bed. I started to go when Harriett said, "Just a minute, you two. I'd like to talk to you. Tilly first."

I walked upstairs and stood outside the door of my room. Less than a minute later, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I walked over so I could talk to Tilly, catching her just before she made a mad dash for her room.

"Tilly, listen. I really am sorry about the plate, I shouldn't have yelled."

She shrugged, avoiding my gaze and running into her room, closing the door behind her. By her hard stare, I could tell she was still mad at me. Well, I tried. I really shouldn't have yelled at her. But I've done all I can about that now.

I walked downstairs, ready for the word Harriett wanted to have with me. As soon as I saw her, she stood up.

I walked down the rest of the stairs and over to her.

"Well, Heather," she said in a low voice, so as not to wake the others. "What do you have to say about this?"

"I was wrong for yelling at her. There's nothing that can be done about it now."

"Do you mean that, Heather?" she asked coldly. "Or are you just saying it?"

"Oh, I mean it." I said coolly. "And I have one more thing to say…"

"Tilly told me that you threatened her."

"I don't like giving orders, that's what I said." I explained. "And I don't like giving orders."

"Then why do you give them?"

"Because you give them to me!" I rasped, keeping my voice down. "Every time Tilly gets hurt, I get in trou…"

"_Good night,_ Heather." She interrupted, with an unmistakable tone of finality to her voice.

"Good night…" I wasn't sure whether to call her 'Harriett' or 'Mum.' Instead, I turned on my heel and walked up the stairs, trying to avoid the creaky spots.

I had called her Harriett ever since she had taken me in, and she had never had a problem with it. But this was one of those awkward positions where you had to wonder.

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**Author's Note: I am aware of the fact that this story is moving pretty slowly. In the next chapter, the pace picks up by a long shot, I promise. Also, Heather is a bit of a brat in this chapter, but that is intentional. She's not always going to be like that. And again, please review! I have received some constructive criticism which is very helpful, so if you have any suggestions, please by all means send me a review. Even if you DON'T have any suggestions and just hate it, I am perfectly happy with flames. Thank you!**


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